Chapter 6

“N. Reynolds, I’m afraid the meds you’ve been taking have done you no favors.”

The doctor wears a white coat, as all such professionals do. He is middle-aged, with a slight paunch. His balding pate gleams in the afternoon sun through frosted glass.

He wears spectacles, old fashioned and ill-fitting.

The restraints on my wrists keep me silent and motionless. I’ve already explained that I took only what was given to me in my food rations.

Giving me an irritable look, he asks, “Have you nothing to say?”

“I’ve already said it,” I reply softly. “I’ve written it down, including what I was given by C. Carmichael at the commissary. I can repeat it, if you like, but I have no other information to give you.”

Wiping his head with a white cloth, he glares at me. “Natalie, may I call you Natalie? You must understand—”

“No, you may not. You may call me N. Reynolds.” I cross my legs under my hospital issued robe, the very picture of calm and ease. “I do understand completely. You believe I’ve gotten unsanctioned meds and wish to know from whom.”

He grins at me, the smile oily and unctuous. I want to slap him for it. “Yes, that’s exactly what we want to know!”

“I do agree with you on that. Someone has given me something that wasn’t good for me, and that I wouldn’t have taken of my own free will.” I lean forward, holding his gaze. “I’d like to know what was in them.”

We’ve had this conversation many times, he and I. As usual, he sits back in his chair and pushes a button on his phone to call in the orderlies. “I’m not at liberty to discuss that information, N. Reynolds.”

“Then this conversation is over.” He stares at me. I don’t meet his eyes because it isn’t necessary. I’m done talking.

“One more thing, N. Reynolds. I need one answer, and then I will allow you to see your partner.” The doctor takes his glasses off, polishing them on the hem of his coat. “What did you see the day you came to this facility?”

I hide my start of surprise. I don’t have a partner. He should know that, but maybe he doesn’t. In either case, I don’t want to tip my hand. I look down into my lap and play with the folds of my robe, the very picture of a woman on the verge of nervous collapse.

He doesn’t need to know that my thoughts are as clear as they were when I was twenty-one and my beloved New Orleans went under the wrecking ball in the name of progress. He doesn’t need to know that I question every moment of my existence since that horrifying day when the historic riverfront fell.

In the interest of detox, he’s given me back myself. But this is a new question. He hasn’t asked this before. I’m feeling generous, so I give him a small truth.

“I saw a man playing a banjo on the corner of Bourbon and St. Phillip,” I say.

He smiles as if I’ve given him a nugget of gold. I don’t like it when he does that, and I think he knows it. “Very good. What was his name?”

“I didn’t ask,” I reply, which is another truth.

The orderlies escort me back to my room. They are faceless entities, wearing green scrubs that clash with the soothing blue of the walls.

I have one barred window, a bed bolted to the floor, and a single table with one chair, both also secured against movement. There are no curtains to block the sun. I suppose they think I’ll hang myself with them. I have a tiny bathroom that isn’t monitored, but if I spend more than three minutes, someone comes to check on me.

A camera winks at me from the corner over the door.

They’re probably watching me so closely because of the detox. I don’t remember much of it, thank goodness. What I do remember is ghastly. I can’t even say how long it took, but I’ve been lucid for three days.

The doctor posed a very good question. Why was I given those tainted meds? I’m pretty sure I know who it was, though I’m in no hurry to share that information until I find out why.

It had to have been L. Martinus. He admitted to having access to my food, and knew a great deal more about me than he ought to have. Yet he told me not to take them. Why would he give me bad meds if he didn’t intend for me to use them?